A family breakfast. A casual remark — 'the only husband I ever had.' And a man whose heart, by lunchtime, will have stopped for reasons that have nothing to do with his heart.
Reggie Fortune doesn't investigate. He drawls, he sighs, he says 'my dear chap' — and somewhere underneath all that languor, he's already counting the lies.
There were two victims that morning. Only one of them was found in the wood.
H.C. Bailey at his most deceptively gentle — and his most precise.